


Bertram Takes Control

by Culumacilinte



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-31
Updated: 2007-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie and Jeeves have a 'gentlemen's agreement.'  Bertie decides to shake things up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bertram Takes Control

As you presumably know, reading this as you are, I, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, have made a habit of recording the many and various adventures (and misadventures) of myself and friends of self in books which are then made available to the public eye.  I’ve spared no detail, no-matter how sordid, of my many unfortunate engagements, incidents of complete humiliation, and even my occasional arrests and brief spells in chokey.  Well, it is now perhaps time to ‘fess up, as the saying goes: there has been one _slight_ detail which I have purposefully left out of my memoirs.  Admittedly, it is not so much a detail as the single most important thing in my life.  And nothing about it is in the least bit slight.  However, know that I have only deigned to exclude it from said memoirs because I was advised to do so by my man Jeeves, who is the heart and soul of wisdom, and whom I would trust with my very life. 

‘Sir,’ he has oft said, ‘It is perhaps prudent that the public should not know of all your doings.  While your honesty is undoubtedly commendable, I find that privacy too has its place.’

Or- something to that effect.  Jeeves talks in a way which is entirely peculiar to himself and which I cannot replicate with any real success.  But it seems I’ve got myself sidetracked.  What I mean to say is that this thing- the thing which I’ve neglected to inform you fine people of- is a thing between Jeeves and myself of a rather… intimate nature, as it were.  Jeeves prefers to call it a “gentleman’s agreement,” but I don’t imagine that many gentlemen agree in the way Jeeves and I do, which- and I cannot lie here- is one of the most utterly spiffing things I’ve ever experienced.  Indeed, were I in a particularly sentimental mood, I might say that my man Jeeves is the love of the Wooster bosom, my specific dream rabbit, and all the rest of that tosh.  That is one problem with this so-called “agreement” of ours; I do, on occasion, find myself waxing as absurdly soppy as Madeleine Bassett herself, a fate no respectable _preux chevalier_ likes to entertain the idea of succumbing to.

But- and this is the rub, as the chap said- I would willingly surrender to such soppiness for Jeeves’s sake, knowing that, stout fellow as he is, he would undoubtedly stick to the Young Master’s side regardless.  Such is our agreement, if you follow.

Now, if you are at all familiar with the way Jeeves and self harmonise, you will know that it is Jeeves who reigns supreme in the Wooster household.  Not to say, of course, that he’s some sort of tyrant who rules with a cudgel and one of those dashed sharp swords that those Round Table-type chappies used to wave so offhandedly about.  No, he’s a bit more like… dash it, I’ve forgotten what the turn of phrase is.  Ah!  An iron fist in a velvet glove, Jeeves has informed me.  But yes, that is what the man is like.  B. Wooster after all not being the crème of the intellectual crop, and Jeeves himself having such a brain that his skull is forced to protrude somewhat in the back in order to accommodate it, it is always for my own good (at least in the end.  He does occasionally put self through rather dire straits in order to come out in the clear, but come out I always do).  So in the guise of the docile and deferential valet, Jeeves manoeuvres things in that delicate, behind-the-scenes way he has so that they turn out all right. 

So, when our gentleman’s agreement commenced, it seemed only natural that this arrangement continue to the bedroom, and so it did.  Now, think not that I am complaining; strike me thrice and call me a bally cucumber should I ever do such a thing, for to be pinned upon the mattress and ravished senseless by a man such as Jeeves, well… Suffice to say it’s more than most people would ever dream of.  The best valet I have ever come across, Jeeves is devoted solely to the accommodation of his gentleman, and as clever with his tongue and his hands as he is with that mind of his, and let me tell you, he is pretty deuced clever. 

However, there comes a time when a man such as Bertram feels the need to assert himself- to stand tall and strong as his ancestors did. Although I imagine they never did said standing tall-ly and strongly in any of the circs to which I’m here alluding- if the ancient relation Sieur de Wooster were to come into an awareness of my activities in the bedchamber, I fancy he wouldn’t have been quite so bold in defending his family name.  In other words, though I’m ordinarily more than content to lie back and let Jeeves go about his work, I’m rather keen on switching the posish’s about a bit.  See what Jeeves looks like on his back. 

I must stop myself there, I’m afraid.  That’s an image I cannot have in my head and still manage to write in my ordinary eloquent and articulate fashion.  Allow me to biff off for a mo’, and I’ll be back shortly. 

Right-ho, that’s scuppered that.  Now, where was I? Of course: my resolution to flip-flop the current posish in re. Jeeves, self, and the bedroom.  How best to put said resolution into action, however, was an issue that presented me with no end of difficulty.  Generally, of course, when a topic of concern shoulders itself into the Wooster brain, I simply fork it off onto Jeeves, where it shall, in a matter of seconds, be neatly fixed and presented back to self in a nicely gift-wrapped box.  In this particular instance, however, that was not an option, for obvious reasons.  I allowed the thing to simmer for a while, with the thought that perhaps one day the solution might simply leap out at me, presenting itself with a cheery “What ho, Bertie!” 

Unlikely perhaps, but, rummily enough, that is almost precisely the way it occurred.  I was loafing about on a darkish afternoon, smoking a lazy gasper and immersing self in an improving book when suddenly it came to me.  I sprang upright in my chair, the book which had been the object of my attentions leaping out of my grip like a fish up a river.  I felt a bit like that Greek chappie who had realised the secret of some queer equation or another and had promptly leapt out of his bath and dashed down the street, completely _au naturel_ ,shouting “Eureka!”  Naturally, I did no such thing myself, as Jeeves had already convinced my elderly neighbour, Mrs. Tinkler–Moulkes, that I was quite off my bean and I saw no reason to further her belief to that end.   As it was, I merely retrieved my fallen tome from the floor and blew a contented smoke ring, feeling rather pleased with my own cleverness.

That night, when Jeeves arrived home from his errands of that afternoon, I greeted him with my customary ‘What ho, Jeeves!’

He gave me the faintest hint of a smile at that, inclining his head politely.  ‘Good evening, sir.  I trust I find you well?’

You see, even though our relationship has far exceeded that of an ordinary servant-and-master, or even that of your regular, run of the mill friendship, and passed into something rather deeper and warmer, Jeeves still insists that everything run as it did before said exceeding occurred.  The old feudal spirit in him, I expect.  He does smile more now, though, and the man does have the most marvellous smile, if you ever get the opportunity to cast your eyes upon it.  It starts out as a mere curling of those perfect lips of his, and slowly widens until said p. l.’s are curved into a wide, contented grin which makes me thrill not a little bit at the sight.  A bit rum, that I should react so to a simple smile, but there it is.

I cast a rather gay smile in Jeeves’s direction.  ‘Well; yes Jeeves, you might indeed say that I am well.  It seems to me that despite the pall of cloud that hangs over the metrop, this is indeed the sort of day when all’s right in heaven and God’s in the world.’  I paused, furrowing the brow.  ‘Dash it Jeeves, that can’t be right, can it?’

‘I believe, sir, that the line you wish to refer to runs thusly: “The lark's on the wing/ The snail's on the thorn/ God's in his Heaven /All's right with the world!” It is a passage from a poem by Robert Browning, sir.’

‘Ah.  Quite.  Knew his stuff then, this Browning chappie?’

A gentle cough from Jeeves.  ‘He was a poet of some repute, sir.’

And with that he oozed off to stow his purchases and prepare dinner, leaving me with my book and my scheme.

Supper went as supper ordinarily does, with Jeeves eating at the table with me, as I had no pals or relations over that night, and together we bolted down a few platefuls of the old victuals before Jeeves shimmered off to do the washing and prepare Bertram’s nightly dose of brandy and soda, light on the soda. 

He biffed into the sitting room with the aforementioned b-and-s on a tray and, having presented it to me, began to glide off again, but I held up a hand and indicated that he should stay.  He arched an elegant brow and resumed his previous posish by the armchair in which I was situated. 

‘Sir?’  I noticed he’d disposed of the drinks tray, much as one of those conjuror johnnies might- simply waved a hand and the bally thing up and disappears.

But the miraculous disappearance of the tray, fine specimen though it is, was not my point.  No, now was the time to enact the first stage of my scheme.  So, taking my time about the thing, I took a leisurely sip of my b-and-s and looked up at Jeeves in a lazy, casual sort of way. ‘You’re not at all busy tonight, are you Jeeves?’

‘I had nothing in mind as to how the evening should progress, sir.’

‘Excellent.’  I allowed my own lips to curve in what I hoped was a roguish sort of smile.  ‘Because, Jeeves, I had one or two quite distinct ideas as to that end.’

One of the Jeevesian eyebrows rose a precisely calculated fourth of an inch.  To any who might have been watching (though thankfully, there was no-one snooping about in my flat to be observing), he appeared barely affected by the bit of news I had just imparted, but to one such as myself, experienced in reading the admittedly dashed-difficult-to-read phizog of my valet as I am, he looked positively pleased, with a healthy dollop of intrigue whacked on there as well.  ‘Indeed, sir?’  He said.

‘Indeed,’ I parroted, and with that sentiment, rose from my seat, caught a firm hold on Jeeves’s lapels, and brought our lips together in a searing kiss.  After a moment of rather un-Jeevesian hesitation (which is one of the absolutely charming things about Jeeves’s kisses- if he’s not the one to initiate the deuced thing to begin with, he always takes the briefest of moments to adjust, as though he’s never quite prepared to be kissed.  I find it utterly delightful), he opened his mouth under mine and our tongues resumed their already quite intimate acquaintance. 

Manoeuvring around the chair and side-table was a bit of a tricky job, but once it was done, Jeeves had me pinned up against the wall in a jiffy, one admirably muscled thigh thrust between my own and that mouth of his working magic down the line of the Wooster neck.  Though now familiar, I still have never quite got used to how unutterably corking a sensation this is.  It’s the absolute bally tops, let me tell you; like waves of heat sort of shimmering out through the bod and doing gymnastics around the general area of the torso.  Makes one’s brain reel and stars appear before one’s eyes.  The overall feeling of topping-ness increased as I pressed the evidence of my considerable regard for Jeeves against his leg, letting out little- and I am ashamed to say this- whimpers as I did so. 

There was a satisfied, lowish rumble from Jeeves, and I thrust myself on him in another kiss as we made our way to the bedroom, tumbling upon the mattress, as much like a couple of carefree schoolboys as anything.  Jeeves, at this point, was straddling the Wooster person with a not at all objectionable familiarity, his nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons down my shirt as a dextrous tongue flickered against the well-formed shell of my ear.  Everything in me screamed to let him go on! continue!, but with a supreme effort of will, I spoke.

‘I say, Jeeves, stop.’

He froze.  His eyes found mine, and they were wide and blue and positively nonplussed, if that means what I think it ought.  I had to labour to restrain the sounds of merriment which so wished to escape upon seeing that expression.  After all, I don’t think I had ever told Jeeves to stop, in all our history of, well- _this_ , and I could only imagine what he must have been thinking. 

‘No,’ I continued, forcing my voice from breathy and kiss-husked to somewhere more in the range of noble and heroic, ‘Tonight, Jeeves, is the night the Young Master lives up to his title, what?’

He blinked at me for a moment, and I could see understanding bleeding into that great brain of his.  ‘Ah,’ he said, and after a moment of rather awkward (on my part) and amused (on his) silence, I leant up again to kiss him, and in the middle of some really rather excellent exploration of Jeeves’s mouth, I tangled my legs with his and twisted _just so_ so that we positively flipped over and I rolled on top of Jeeves. 

Quick as you like, my fingers were at his starched collar, and in a twinkling of the proverbial eye, I had divested him of all upper-body garments.  His trousers remained, as I was sitting on them, and would have had rather a rum job getting them off without moving, but I felt no end of proud at the alacrity with which I’d undressed him.  It seemed, after all, that some of his valeting prowess had rubbed off on me.  His lips were pursed as he looked at me, in the way which suggested that it was taking all of his considerable concentration not to smile, and he raised the brows in a clear invitation for Bertram to speak. 

‘Well, Jeeves?’  I managed, ‘What think you of this, then?’

I can be a wilful sort of bird at times, and on the few occasions Jeeves and I come to odds about a subject it is because old Bertram has exerted his self-control in the manner of some article of clothing or choice of activity.  Jeeves disapproves, and goes all chilly and aloof for however long it takes for me to chuck the item in question.  However, in this instance, it seemed abundantly clear to me that Jeeves approved- in every possible sense of the word- of the scheme I’d got into my head.  His eyes were ablaze and his nostrils flared as he looked at me, and I was rather reminded of a racehorse champing at the proverbial bit. 

He coughed, shifting a little beneath me, and my breath caught at the friction, which was somehow entirely different from on top.  ‘I do observe, sir, a certain reversal of roles.  Am I correct in assuming that this is your intent?’

I let out one of the gay and cheerful ones.  ‘It is indeed, Jeeves.  You know the whatsit about the servant and the master and whatnot.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ he began to say, but it pleases me to say that he was quite cut off before he could get out more than the “Inde-”, for I had suddenly rolled my hips against his, a move Jeeves himself is exceedingly fond of using, and he broke off with a gasp.  I hastily undid the few buttons on my shirt which had not already been undone, and, throwing the article of clothing to the floor with reckless abandon, leaned down against Jeeves so that our bare chests were smashed together in a way which neither of us was at all averse to.

‘Tell me, Jeeves,’ I murmured, swirling my tongue in the little dip just below his neck, ‘are you finding this reversal of roles as much to your liking as this-’ a calculated thrust to the rather obvious evidence of his regard for me- ‘would indicate?’

He choked back a groan as I applied my teeth the ridge of his collarbone. ‘Most… assuredly,’ he muttered, preoccupied with running his digits through my hair.

I grinned and rubbed against him once again, feeling a rather rummy sensation as though the bottom of my stomach had dropped down to somewhere around my left ankle as he tipped his head back and allowed the c.’ed b. d. to escape with a force that caused the furniture to rearrange itself from the very sound of it.  ‘“Most assuredly” what?’  I asked, surprising myself because, in all honesty, I hadn’t at all planned to ask anything of the sort.  Continuing the motion of my hips against his, however, I soon realised what precisely I had meant and so, apparently, did he, for he said, in a low voice:

‘Most assuredly… _sir_.’ 

A sort of shiver ran all through me and finally shot out every pore on the Wooster body with such vigour that I was honestly surprised there weren’t scorch marks on the walls. I felt a bit like I imagine those conqueror blokes must have felt, with the world at their feet and all that; it was a heady, rushing sort of sens. that filled me to the brim and left me fizzing, rather like a good, quick dose of Jeeves’s morning-after remedy. ‘Come now, Bertram!’ You may be saying, ‘What’s the fuss?  Surely, Jeeves only ever refers to you as “sir”, as any valet would.’  True, yes, very true, but I realised suddenly that _because_ I heard the word so often- ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ ‘Most disturbing, sir,’ I’d sort of… discounted it, as it were.  Thrown it by the wayside, in a manner of speaking, never realised its true potential. 

But the word “sir,” a mere three letters though it was, when said by Jeeves, looking up at me with his face flushed and eyes blazing, was enough to make me throw myself upon him as I had never done before, indeed in a way entirely unsuited to an Old Etonian or a gentleman of any description, fingers scrabbling and teeth marking my passage down his chest.  Jeeves is always a reserved figure, even in our activities betwixt the sheets, but now he seemed to take his cue from the Young Master, writhing underneath my touch and making the most enchanting noises; rummy sort of keening sounds and now and then a deep, rumbling moan. 

This went on for some time, Jeeves caressing my back with his strong, capable hands whilst I covered him from tip to toe (proverbially speaking) in what Mrs. Rosie M. Banks would doubtless have called ‘burning kisses of desire’ or some such rot.  Eventually, however, it came to both our attentions that the lower portions of our anatomy were in rather dire need of some attention

‘Say it again,’ I breathed, almost frantic now as I fumbled with the button of his trousers, which seemed suddenly much harder to deal with than was ordinarily its wont. 

‘Say what, sir?’

The trouser-catch popped open with positive enthusiasm, and I hastily yanked the obstructive article of clothing off, shoving them down around Jeeves’s knees (and fine specimens of knee-hood they are, smooth and well-formed and not at all knobbly).  They were dashed uncooperative and after a moment, I gave up trying to get them off altogether and concentrated removing on my own nattily-tailored trousers from the Wooster pins, which were bally well quivering with excitement.  Other things, may I say, were quivering with excitement as well.

On the bed, Jeeves lay very still, with the exception of his hips, which were straining against my own.  I let out a little breathy chuckle.  It seemed that even Jeeves’s great brain couldn’t entirely curb the impulses of the flesh and all that.

Not seeing any reason to prolong things any more than I absolutely had to, I wrapped the hand around both Jeeves and myself, letting out a rather hissy sort of noise as I did so, like air being let out of a tyre.  Jeeves gave a positive start, jerking a little, and I doubled my efforts, smoothing the passage of my hand with the fluid which had begun to collect at the tip of both our lengths. 

Generally it is Jeeves who does this, he being the ‘man-in charge,’ if you like, but apparently my technique had not suffered from lack of practise, for Jeeves was shuddering beneath me, moaning That Word over and over again, in an increasingly breathless fashion.  I describe this, wrongly, as though I were merely an objective observer.  I must correct myself; it was only with the utmost effort of will that I managed to keep the Wooster bod in a mostly upright position, for the sensations crashing around inside me were more than enough to make me flop over as if my bones had taken a sudden and unexpected holiday. 

As it was, I propped myself up with a hand on the mattress just to the side of Jeeves’s head, and continued my ministrations, going faster and faster until with a final, choked “Sir!”, Jeeves released himself over my hand.  I stilled my motions for a moment, watching the chap with unconcealed delight.  He looks, may I point out, positively delish whenever we’ve finished our, ah- activities; his ebon hair tousled and his finely-chiselled cheekbones a most fetching shade of pink.  After a moment to collect himself, he drew in a deepish breath and, leaning himself on one elbow, took things in hand, in the most literal way possible.

As Jeeves’s eternally capable hand encircled my length, I felt myself slump against him in a kind of ecstasy, my breathing shallowing out a good deal, and it became instantly clear to me that the heat I had felt before was nothing but a faint hovering on the edges of my consciousness compared to this.  A match, if you will, compared to a roaring furnace.  All my previous thoughts of being in control of the situation fled with the talented touch of my valet’s hand.  Jeeves, however, seemed to still be in the spirit of things, for his eyes were downcast and he held himself with an obsequiousness quite uncharacteristic of his normal, proud bearing. 

‘Jeeves,’ I muttered breathlessly, one hand keeping a pincer-like grip on the man’s shoulder, the other mangling the bedding beneath us rather mercilessly, ‘God, oh- _Jeeves_.’

The expression on his dial flickered for a moment and one eyebrow quirked.  ‘Quite so, sir.’

It did not take long, I blush to say, before I reached my own peak, for Jeeves, devious cove as he occasionally can be, kept up a murmured, running commentary as he stroked and caressed and did all manner of other, less-mentionable things:

‘Precisely, sir; just so, sir.  Mmm, very good, sir.  Is that… satisfactory, sir?’

Well, you can hardly blame a chap, can you?  It took a few moments to regain any semblance of coherence in my thoughts, as they were swirling about the Wooster coconut in a way which made tracking them down and sending them _en route_ to my mouth dashed difficult.  Indeed, rather too difficult to bother with, or so it seemed to me, so Jeeves and I lay, arms and legs wrapped around each other in a companionable sort of way, steeped in a- dash it, what’s the word? Begins with an s, I know. Satiated, that’s that chap.  Anyway- steeped in a satiated silence, until Jeeves turned to me with a smile hovering about the brow.

‘Sir?’

I cleared the throat.  ‘Yes, Jeeves?’

‘Might I enquire as to the, ah, thought behind that, sir?’

I shrugged lazily.  ‘I was thinking, don’t you know, and it rather popped into the old onion that a little diversity in this area of activity might be called for, eh what?  You approve, I trust, Jeeves?’

At this point, I allowed my gaze to become a bit heated and mischievous, and Jeeves’s eyes twinkled as he smiled; one of those rare, full-blown, gay and cheerful ones that I so treasure. 

‘Eminently so, sir.’

‘Quite.  What was it the chap said, about variety? Something to do with herbs?’

It was a mark of what a corking mood Jeeves was in that this comment didn’t even get the mountain-goat cough it ordinarily would have merited, but I blushed slightly nonetheless under the look he was currently bestowing upon me.  It was the sort of look that said _Bertram, you are an idiot and a fathead_.  Or would have, perhaps, if the look was Aunt Agatha.  But as it was Jeeves, it was more a sort of amused reprimand.  ‘Spice, sir.’  He corrected gently, ‘“Variety's the very spice of life/ That gives it all its flavour.” William Cowper, sir.  Another poet.’

I heaved one of the deep, contented ones, and snuggled a little closer to my valet, who accommodated me generously.  ‘They knew what they were on about, these poet johnnies, didn’t they?’

Jeeves looked fondly back at me, smiling again.  ‘Indeed they did, sir, indeed they did.’


End file.
